SORRENTO, FL — Former part-time customs agent Wolfgang Halbig, whose bizarre statements and odd behavior have become a cause of widespread concern as of late, made his first public comments on the matter in an interview Monday morning, telling reporters “the danger has passed, and there is nothing to fear.” The 69-year-old went on to explain the secret behind his supposed return to mental stability: “cannabis oil fixed my brain.”
Speaking via Skype from his Sorrento home, the retired Driver’s Education instructor was visibly excited about what he called “the real game-changer for America,” admitting that “until I found this healing elixir, I was a rambling fool, an embarrassment to my family. I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight, or even spell out a proper sentence. But now?” — Halbig paused, produced what had once been a Visine bottle from his pocket, now filled with a viscous brown-gold fluid, and inhaled its contents sharply into each nostril — “I’m like a runaway train of truth. Toot! Toot!”
His desk piled high with stacks of unread work orders from Sandy Hook Elementary School that he had demanded access to, but still has not released to his donors, Halbig is adamant that his drug regimen is not to blame for the rumors that continue to circulate. “What kind of a chicken[expletive] coward would say something like that? Who does that?” the former high school football coach and role model said of his critics, a fine thread of drool forming on the corner of his mouth. Wolfgang Halbig claims that the administration of such extremely potent psychoactive marijuana-based oils — far in excess of any dosage recommended by even the most fringe health professional — is not what has been impairing his memory, or judgment. “As far as I can remember,” he says with a pained expression, “I was experiencing memory problems before I started getting high all the time.”
While the exact sequence of events remains elusive, the incident that brought about his change in attitude is vivid in Halbig’s mind. One day In the summer of 2012, Wolfgang realized his brain health was in serious jeopardy. “I swear to you, I had just jumped up to catch a touchdown pass, my toned and fit body was falling back to the gridiron, I had that pigskin in my hands, the cheerleaders are all skimpy-dressed and about to shout my name, when POOF!! I come to and I’m standing in a classroom, in the middle of delivering a workshop on a bunch of school safety products. Worse yet, while I was out of it, I had apparently lapsed back into my demo sales pitch for the [fraudulent device marketed as a bomb detector] Quadro-Tracker! It’s like I don’t know the first thing about school safety! What am I doing up there? It was really embarrassing.”
Fearing the onset of a degenerative brain disease, Halbig grew desperate. His search for a cure led him back to his roots. “I put on my state trooper hat,” he says proudly, referring to a year stint with the Florida State Patrol, lasting between one and two and a half years in the mid-1970s. “We used to pick up stoners all the time, under the piers out on Miami Beach. One of them seemed like their guru or something, a wise man in touch with the unseen. He offered to tell me his secret to inner serenity if I let him go. I’ll never forget what he said.”
[Upon finishing this statement, Wolfgang Halbig trailed off, and started in the middle distance for two full minutes, intermittently humming what was reported to be a rendition of Deep Purple’s Highway Star. Prompted, he was unable to complete his statement or recall its factuality.]
Halbig claims he was not a marijuana user while on the force, though mystery clouds his departure. “It’s like one day Wolfy just disappeared in a puff of water-pipe-cooled smoke,” said one Academy classmate.
In the Orlando-area public school system where Halbig washed up in the 1980s, drugs were commonplace. Wolfgang Halbig reportedly had a reputation among both students and the staff as an unusually vigilant investigator, whenever Marijuana possession was reported. Informally known as the “Avon Park Roach-master” for a time during this period, Halbig is quick to explain that the moniker, in fact, arose due to his dilapidated bachelor pad, where he came to rest at the time after his marriage crumbled.
As for his behavior on the job, “that was probably just all the mold,” Wolfgang says, beads of sweat forming on his brow when he recalls his tenure as Risk Manager for a local school board. “I’ll tell you what, it was like a dang petri dish up in those crawl spaces. I was really frightened of telling all those parents about the mold, so I just didn’t, problem solved.” Pressing a “dab” of cannabinoid-rich Butane Hash Oil into a heat pipe, Wolfgang continued “but if it’s not one thing, it’s another! Next thing you know, those angry parents are coming to confront me about the carpet of mold spreading in the ceiling!” Ever resilient, Halbig quickly found a more practical strategy. “I’d duck into a broom closet if I saw any of ‘em in the halls. Conflict avoided. Problem is, those closets were where the black spores were the densest. I haven’t felt that dizzy until I started hitting the really ‘couch-lock’ Sativa strains last year.”
Back in his office, batting aside, a mounted FEMA certification from the wall to hang up a “sweet fractal poster,” Wolfgang’s focus turned philosophical. “We — our bodies, our essences, matter itself, everything — it’s all just energy vibrating at different speeds. Time is circular and singular,“ said the unsteady senior citizen, unscrewing the cap to an eyedropper and dispensing five globules of highly refined THC oil directly onto each of his pupils. “Money is meaningless. Liquidate your assets, surrender them. I’ll need you to send me a personal check, though, those squares over at Paypal can suck one.”
If Halbig is mentally rejuvenated, as he repeatedly claims with a visibly parched mouth and drooping eyelids, then there are still signs that fear may linger on the fringes of his psyche; leaning onto a dictionary in order to break up a “rockin’ THC shatter” he had picked up the night before from an individual he would identify only as “Enrique,” Halbig grew visibly angrier as he proceeded to outline the “illusion” he was up against: “Obama, Holder, that one priest who gave me the evil eye, the NFL, the Freemasons…. everyone is in on it! I’m telling you, it all goes back to those port-a-potties. That’s where we need to really dig in.”
When queried about the side effects of his drug of choice, Halbig is dismissive. “No, it’s not making me paranoid,” Halbig chuckled uneasily, glancing in the rear-view mirror of his SUV for a “tail” on the way to “score.” more pharmaceutical-grade cannabis tincture. “In fact, I’m seeing everything even more clearly now…”